This piece was contributed by a reader. I was moved by erotic and spiritual truths that this story conveys. The following contains very explicit depictions of Jesus as gay, as a sinner, and as having sex. If you think any of these things may offend you, or you are under the age of 25, please do not continue.

- Miss Poppy Dixon, Editor

I guess I'd been struggling with homosexuality for a long time - in short, I wasn't getting any. None of the guys I met seemed to do it for me. Too queeny, too self-absorbed, too willing to bring up the intricacies of Madonna's career as a conversational topic. You know how it goes. The constant disappointment had me frustrated to the point where I was considering switching over to the other team: I'd find a nice gum-snapping, big-haired-with-crispy-bangs mall girl named Pantene to settle down with and squeeze out a couple of twins we could call Whitney and Britney. Not the best option, but strangely preferable to a life spent talking about clothing labels.

I was mulling over this strategy in my hotel room (I represent the nation's largest distributor of WWJD? Pentecostal hair ribbons) when, out of boredom, I started flipping through the Gideon bible left on the nightstand. Maybe it was my mood, exhaustion or the pungent disorienting vapors emanating from the toilet deodorizing cake, but somehow the Word seemed different - as though it read like a personal ad. Of course I'd read the bible zillions of times before and memorized passages as an aid to convincing retail Christian bookstore owners to buy my company's products, but this was the first time that perusing the word of God left me with a woody. All this talk of people falling to their knees and receiving Jesus left me randy, wanting and hot for the body of Christ. I wanted to know him in the worst way.

Luckily, I stumbled onto the part of the scripture that told me Jesus was already knocking at the door. Now, I hadn't heard anything, but I DID have Radiohead blasting. I felt sort of foolish, but what the hell. I got up to check. When I opened the door of my hotel room my entire sense of the world crumbled away into nothingness, and everything I knew to be true was suddenly suspect. Because there he was, smiling beatifically and holding an ice bucket.

I can't explain in mere words the sheer beauty of his physical presence. The renaissance painters just didn't do him justice. He had flowing, shoulder-length chestnut hair framing his deliciously chiseled features, penetrating come-fuck-me eyes, the totally trendy but somehow appropriate alterna-teen goatee - all planted on top of the most exquisitely borderline anorexic body I'd ever seen. Jesus Christ was the twink's twink.

Of course I was so discombobulated by his total gorgeousness (not to mention that a resurrected Jew was hanging out in the hallway of a Howard Johnson's) that I lost all trace of flirting ability and just stood there blinking and flapping my mouth like a carp that had just been pulled from the river. Jesus glanced past me into the room, took in the music, and said "OK Computer...cool." Then he took me in with one of those soul-uncovering stares of his and said "Uh, you have to INVITE me in..." I recovered enough to beckon towards the room (where, I hoped, the king-sized bed dominating the place would not go unnoticed) and said "Please..". As he walked past I got a closer look at the perfectly hairless chest and sunken abs displayed through his unbuttoned flannel. "Please.." I repeated, with total conviction.

Of course at this point the moment was so unbearably uncomfortable for me that I could barely think. What could I possibly say to the Son of Man that would be even a first step towards charming him out of his pants? Should I just let loose and start firing questions at him, the way I imagined everyone else did, trying to unravel the religious mysteries that have plagued the faithful for centuries? Should I try to play up the devotional angle and casually "mention" all those years in Sunday school, and the six years of junior high and high school spent at a private Christian school? Should I make a joke of trying to sell him a WWJD? bracelet? Instead, of course, my dick did the talking and I ended up muttering "I can't believe you're thirty-three..."

He laughed. "I get that a lot. Sometimes it's a blessing, sometimes it's a curse," he said. "So to speak."

I laughed, our eyes met, and I felt the shock of recognition that made the apostles so batshit for him. He was one of those dudes that somehow made you feel like you've known him forever and you were instantly comfortable around. In this case it might have been that he knew my name without my telling him and started recounting personal incidents from my past, but I'm just guessing. Like all good conversationalists he kept turning the attention back to me and my interests, saying that there was far too much talk about him to begin with and that he didn't want to add to it, But he did let a few tidbits slip:

He likes those yellow Hostess cupcakes and peels the icing off in one piece, eats the cake, and saves the icing for last.

He never quite got what the big deal was about 'Titanic.'

Satan is actually pretty funny once you get to know him and plays a mean harmonica.

Saint Paul wet the bed well into adulthood.

The whole talk, of course, was fraught with sexual tension and I just couldn't bring myself to approach the whole gay/straight/bi question. It sure SEEMED like he was coming on to me, but I'd been there before and had been badly fooled. At one point he ditched the flannel so that he was sitting there stripped to the waist and causing my loins to do the macarena, but again - he may have just been a tad too warm. I figured that I could do with some alcohol to strengthen my nerve. "You know," I said, "I could call room service and get us a bottle of wine, or you could, you know, uh...," gesturing to the water pitcher. "Well," he said, smiling as though we were sharing an unspoken secret," I don't know how you feel about this - well, actually I do but I like to play these things out like I'm normal, whatever that means - but I was wondering if you'd like to burn one..." He fished around in the pocket of his shirt, hanging on the chair, and came up with the hugest joint I'd ever seen. "Unless you're a cop, of course." he laughed.

That broke the tension. "I am a cop," I said, "and I'm taking you in for two thousand years of inciting riots..." Jesus actually thought that was a good one and spluttered as he tried to light the spliff. "I'll go quietly," he snickered.

He took a long drag and passed the joint.

"'Ey," he said while straining to keep the smoke down, "wanna see a miracle?"

I nodded as I inhaled, and the king of kings plucked a quarter from my ear. I politely applauded as I felt the buzz starting to settle in, and it seemed strangely reminiscent of the time an amateur magician had tried to pick me up by attempting to get me to write my phone number on a selected playing card. "You're good," I said as I expelled smoke. "Yeah, and I'm working with a handicap" he said, placing the back of his hand against his eye and peering at me through the sizable hole in his palm. "Peekaboo!"

The moment hit me. Here I was, getting rocked off my ass with God's son, who was actually playing peekaboo with me through his nail scars. I must be living right.

Christ took another hit, held it in, then suddenly leapt to his feet and started flapping his arms. "Now I'm a crow!" he shouted, "Caw! Caw! Caw!" then collapsed back onto the bed in fits of giggles. Apparently the redeemer was a lightweight when it came to pot.

"You know," he said, suddenly unable to keep himself from talking a blue streak - not that I minded in the slightest - "when I was wandering in the desert and fasting for forty days and forty nights and all that happy horseshit, I was REALLY goofy then. Your mind, you know, when deprived of nourishment plays tricks on you. I'd like, have conversations with rocks and stuff and sort of trip out on nature. I'd whammy me up some weed and a water pipe and just go with the whole psycho-crazy-what-is-reality vibe. I figured I couldn't get my head together unless I lost it first, you know, and just meditate like a motherfucker. I spent a whole afternoon out there pretending I was Wilma Flintstone."

"I see," I said, not seeing at all.

"Yeah, and then Satan showed up and we partied but he got all heavy with the temptation thing and kept trying to bring me down. I said, 'Hey, you, get off of my cloud' - or something to that effect - and he finally got the hint and split. Oh, and you know what?"

"What?"

"I'M STILL A CROW!" he shouted, jumping up and doing his caw caw caw thing again. He flopped back down, laughing, but misjudged his distance and ended up falling off the edge of the bed with a loud thump. "Ow," he said, rubbing his head. He clumsily crawled back onto the bed, grabbing my leg for support, and left his hand there when he finally settled back in. I was beginning to get the picture.

"Hey," he said, relighting the joint that had gone out, "wanna shotgun?" Boy, did I. He tried his best to carefully insert the lit end of the bomber in his mouth, but ended up clumsily singing his lower lip. A huge blister formed but with a touch of his finger it vanished without a trace. "You know I turned down a pretty big endorsement deal with the Chapstick people," he said. Finally, when he got the joint placed in his mouth just right, I leaned over and put my lips around the other end. I started to suck, and as I did the saviour slowly reached up and removed the joint so that our lips were touching. He ran his nail-scarred hand up the small of my back, caressing me, and allowed his tongue to dance into the confines of my mouth and explore my own tongue. I murmurred my approval and reached out to embrace him.

"Praise the me," he said, momentarily breaking our kiss, "I wasn't sure you'd go for it."

"Me?" I stammered, astounded, "YOU were worried about ME?"

"You'd be surprised at how many people reject Christ" he said. "Not good for the ol' self-esteem."

I assured him he had nothing to worry about and went back to the business of speaking in tongues. His hand snaked down the front of my jeans, unbuttoning them in the process, where I had a resurrection of my own going on. While continuing to kiss his way around my face and neck, he slowly began to stroke my rod and staff and then did something that no other lover had done before or, I'm confident, will do again. Holding his hand out flat, knuckles up, he brought the palm of his hand down onto the head of my cock and allowed it to penetrate the opening left by the roman nails. No, I'm not hung like a ferret or anything - miraculously the scarred palm opened up to receive my stiffie then tightened in circumference so that the hole was a perfect fit to my rock hard member. He began to jack me off as though he were dribbling a basketball. I could only describe the feeling as rapturous.

He went at it with increasing ferocity, clinging to me with a strong embrace and bringing me closer and closer to climax. Instinctively, he stopped at the last possible moment I could have contained my load, whispering that he had better things planned for me. He struggled to remove the rest of his clothing and I did the same. Wound in the side and all, he was the hottest piece of immaculately conceived ass I'd ever seen. Our bodies entwined, perfectly meshing with one another, and we wriggled our way into 69 position. "Thy cup runneth over," he complimented.

My mind was racing as I tasted of his tree of carnal knowledge. Me, sales associate for WWJD? enterprises, purveyor of Pentecostal fashion accessories, actually doing the nasty with Jesus H. Christ. What would Jesus do? Hell, I was finding out first hand - so to speak - and loving every delicious minute of it. He was groaning and grunting and making it seem like I was the best fuck he'd ever had, a natural aphrodisiac if ever there was one, and I felt sure that any second I'd be tasting the salt of the earth. But, again, his divine instincts led him to pull away as my sex was coming to fever pitch. "I want you inside me," he said, seductively spreading the roman soldier's sword wound like a Blueboy model spreading his ass cheeks, "I wanna get fucked centurion-style...'

Of course I was 'up' to the challenge. I reached over to the dresser drawer, where I'd stashed some condoms, and the saviour reached out and took my arm. "Don't worry," he said, "that thing was only a cold sore. Trust me, you're fine."

"Well, uh," I stammered, "I hate to say it but..., well..."

"Oh, that thing about multitudes knowing me? Yeah, I get around, but once immaculate, always immaculate. I know that's what they all say but if I can cure leprosy and, uh, DEATH, I don't think you should have anything to worry about. Not to toot my own horn or anything..."

I smiled, relived. "I wouldn't mind tooting your horn again at all. But let's do this wound thing. Talk about getting a little on the side..."

He rolled over, his sword blade injury inviting me to plunder it like a big scar tissue flag, and I slowly slid my erection into the fleshy pit of his martyrdom. Man oh man, I have fucked some amazing orifices in my time, but let me tell you I've never felt anything like sliding my manhood against the greased gizzard of God. I started humping him like the frustrated zoo monkey I was, slamming harder and harder into his oh-so-heavenly abdomen and making him cry out to his daddy. We rocked back and forth, sliding around every corner of the mattress, knocking pictures off the wall and waking the neighbors. The position made it very easy for me to fondle his son-of-manhood, and when I licked my palm to masturbate him I was astounded to find that the saliva transubstantiated into astro-lube the moment it touched his cock. I was getting closer and closer, feeling the depths of my sin-blemished soul getting ready to go splooey all over his peritoneal cavity, and of course he seemed to be approaching climax exactly in sync with me. I screamed like a wild animal and discharged torrents of catchejism into his voluptuous side, at the same time feeling his hot sperm raining down on my back. "OH COME HOLY SPURT!," he shouted.

There's not much else to tell. He was a god.

We did it a few more times in varying ways, all of them great, and when I asked if he'd spend the night he mumbled something about a big meeting in the morning and started getting his things together. I guess it was pretty presumptuous of me to expect anything other than a one-nighter with Jesus, but he's the kind of guy that makes you instantly size him up as a keeper. I tried to be cool about it, but when he tapped my chest and said "Lo, I am with you always" I got snippy and retorted "What kind of E.T. 'I'll be right here' bullshit is that?' He rolled his eyes and said "Later, man," and off he went. Figures. Men are shit.

Despite the less than hoped for ending, though, I think fondly of the night when I accepted Jesus as my personal sexual saviour, and get a little warm glow every time I have to sign a business letter 'Yours In Christ.' I know we're supposed to forgive, and no doubt that extends to our Lord, but one thing still really pisses me. My own fault, I should have seen it coming a mile away -

The fucking rat bastard stole my wallet.